In 2005, the Afropunk music festival was founded in a small Brooklyn basement to spotlight and uplift the Black punk community. In the 13 years since, it has grown to attract thousands of festival goers each year to Brooklyn’s Commodore Barry Park, and has expanded into a cornerstone, global Black music festival, showcasing genres from soul to hip-hop to dance music. This past weekend’s lineup included acts from Pusha T to The Internet, and while it once again stood as a celebration of Black art, activism, and music, some have criticized the ways in which the festival has grown, and whether it still holds true to its activist roots.

When it was founded, Afropunk had a decidedly social justice-centered message; for years, it has proffered a set of rules and guidelines for attendees — “No Sexism/No Racism/No Ableism/No Ageism/No Homophobia/No Fatphobia/No Transphobia/No Hatefulness” — that have flanked stages on massive banners during past installments.

This year, no such proclamation appeared on the festival’s banners and advertisements, and as Afropunk has grown to include sister festivals in Paris, London, Atlanta, and Johannesburg, some are criticizing the festival’s recent commercial turn. This year, an attendee was reportedly ejected from the festival’s VIP section while wearing a shirt that read “Afropunk sold out for white consumption.” And many queer people are calling into question whether the festival’s queer inclusivity has grown at the same pace as its footprint.

“The first time I went to Afropunk was about four or five years ago. I know a lot of trans people were protesting it, and I stopped going after that,” model and trans activist Jari Jones tells them. “[Afropunk] was gendering the lines and patting people down. For trans folks, that’s really invasive. That’s why you don’t see many QTPOC folks here. I think they’re trying to get better about it, but they have a lot of work to do if they want to get more of us here.”

In prior years, “[Afropunk] meant liberation,” says Allison Graham, creator of the queer fashion blog SheDoesHim. “It meant a celebration of self-identity — it didn't matter who you were or what you wore. It was a world of its own where the outside world actually didn't matter, labels didn't matter, society’s norm didn't matter. It was a 'come as you are and love everyone as they are' space.”

“I think it's still safe, but an awkward safe space, kind of a ‘don't ask don't tell’ expectation,” Graham continues. “We’re left wondering how much of ourselves we can be before the cis community begins to stare or make us feel awkward for being who we are. Still safe, but just not as welcoming as it was before.”

The festival is notable for having helped launch the careers of several notable queer performers, including Mykki Blanco and Janelle Monáe (“If it wasn’t for Afropunk, I wouldn’t have a career today,” Monáe proclaimed during her set Sunday night). And this year’s lineup included several queer acts, including Honey Dijon, Tyler the Creator, SYD, Kaytranada, and more. But where in 2015 the festival included a coordinated protest for trans lives honoring Tamara Dominguez, the 17th murdered trans person that year, this weekend’s event featured no similar gathering, nor were outwardly queer or queer-centered organizations present in Activist Row, a series of booths for social justice nonprofits. That wasn’t the case as recently as last year.

While some queer attendees did find pockets of community there — “I’m just amazed and enamored by all of the beautiful Blackness and queerness before me today,” says Charles Brandon, an Afropunk attendee and poet from Detroit — other attendees privately expressed frustrations over a lack of gender-neutral restrooms, and a general lack of similarly inclusive spaces.

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“Afropunk is Blackness in all of its expressions,” notes Jari Jones, while urging festival organizers to end gender-segregated restroom facilities at the fest and bring more queer acts into future rosters.

With any hope, Afropunk will take the sentiments of Jones, Graham, and others into consideration, and make efforts toward crafting a music festival where all feel welcome in years to come.

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